


Go

by panademonium



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panademonium/pseuds/panademonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse doesn't leave Walt behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go

Jesse turns back around.

Oh, he knows he shouldn't. Any minute now, he's sure, something is going to wreck this. He doesn't know how, exactly, but he can feel it in his bones. The feds will sweep in on helicopters or one of Uncle Jack's buddies will stop by or—or, hell, maybe the fucking Nazis will come back to life. _Nazi zombies_ , he thinks distantly. If there's one thing life has taught him, it's that anything can happen.

Like this. Like Jesse turning around and walking back to the man who condemned him to this. He reaches out and takes a fistful of Walt's jacket and tugs him roughly along, the way Todd so recently jerked him along by his dog chain. He doesn't understand why he's even doing it. Walter White deserves to die here and now, alone and abandoned by everyone. _Especially_ Jesse. But there's something in him that refuses to allow it, and as he leads Walt back to the car, he's desperately trying to figure out if this is what he wants or if he's unknowingly obeying the Devil yet again. Like Walter White can control his mind or something.

"Jesse?" Walt utters weakly. He sounds bewildered, but Jesse doesn't even trust that to be true. Maybe he's just pretending this isn't exactly what he expected. Who knows, who knows. Jesse doesn't answer. He only opens the passenger door and shoves Walt into the seat. And straps him in.

He drives like lightning. He can see red and blue lights flashing in the distance and cuts his own lights, speeding down the desert by the moon's glow. Soon those lights disappear behind him and he figures he's not being followed. They're probably going to be busy at the compound for a while. But helicopters, yeah. There'll be helicopters swarming soon. And Mr.—And _Walt's_ breathing is getting weak next to him.

There's this guy he used to know up on Central, a vet who ran an "afterhours clinic" for types who showed up with bullet holes and couldn't risk going to a hospital. Jesse doesn't know if he's still there. It's been like three years. Maybe the guy's in prison by now. But it's the only thing he can do. It's risky, going into town when the both of them are probably the most wanted outlaws in America, but sometimes Jesse thinks Walt isn't breathing at all and the way his stomach tightens every time makes him push the pedal to the floor and go anyway.

-

When Walt opens his eyes to find himself staring at the ceiling of a musty log cabin, he thinks for one heart-stopping second that he's still in New Hampshire. He jerks up suddenly and immediately regrets it as a sharp pain shoots straight through him. His gasp alerts someone by his side, who flies forward to grab him by the shoulders.

"Jesus, lie down, you goddam lunatic," Jesse hisses, pushing him back against the mattress. Then he turns to check on something—a tube connected to Walt's arm. An I.V. There's blood being pumped into him. The way Jesse checks the machine, he could fool an onlooker into thinking he's a doctor. His lips are pressed into a line, brow furrowed in concentration. He's bathed, apparently, and changed into a pristine baby blue sweatshirt. He looks healthier. Attentive. If it weren't for the scars…

"Where are we?" Walt croaks.

"Manzano," Jesse answers, remaining focused on the tubes and the bag of blood. It takes him another moment before he's satisfied that everything's in place. Walt expects him to face him again, but Jesse turns his back to him instead and walks toward the single window in the place.

"How long've I been out?"

Jesse shrugs, still facing the window. "About two days. Something like that. I ain't been keeping track, exactly."

But the two of them being here, set up like this… Walt knows there's no one else who arranged this. Jesse must have been the one caring for him this whole time. "How—" he begins to ask.

"I guess that psycho musta just got back from a drop," Jesse says, idly running his fingers along the windowsill, dust blackening them. "There was… God, I dunno. I ain't counted it. But it's at least a million, I think. It was just sitting there in the trunk. Just _sitting_ there." Walt can't see it, but he hears the change in Jesse's voice as his lips pull back into a sneer. "Like he didn't even care about it."

_Like it was for nothing_ , Walt fills in mentally.

"Anyway, took you to one of my guys. Discreet, you know. Paid him enough to keep his mouth shut. This is his place. You know, like for family vacations. Except him and the wife split, so nobody's come here in like fifteen years. We're good here 'til you're better. He's gonna keep checking in."

"'We'?" Walt can't help but inquire. None of this makes any sense to him. Why is Jesse here? Why didn't he run?

Jesse wipes the dust onto the pant of his jeans, sniffs, and turns around. That face. It's so familiar, yet not. Carved up and worn. Hardened with contempt. A face belonging to a man, not a boy. "You and me," Jesse confirms, far from sentimental. He forms the words with such an icy hiss that it sounds like a curse. Then he opens the door and walks out into the frosty, sunlit afternoon.

-

There's nothing but the bare essentials up here. There's not even running water, let alone a television. But it's alright. Jesse's become long-accustomed to sitting in silence with only his mind to occupy him. Walt spends the majority of each day sleeping, which is expected with an injury like that, and Jesse avoids him when he's awake. In those long hours when they're together-but-not, Jesse sits in the moldy stuffed chair that's also serving as his bed and watches the old man.

He's looking for something, but he doesn't know what. Is he looking for Mr. White, his old high school teacher? That man isn't there. What about Heisenberg? No, he's not there either. Jesse stares so hard for so long that the man he's looking at starts to look like nothing. Nobody. Not even like a total stranger, but like someone who doesn't exist. Like a ghost.

Sometimes Jesse's scared there's no one here at all. Like it's all just in his head and the cabin's been empty the whole time. When that happens, he walks up and places his hand on Walt's chest. He waits until he's sure he feels a breath or a heartbeat. Then he waits a few seconds more to be extra sure. Then he crawls back into his chair and resumes staring.

About a week has gone by before Jesse realizes that he gets the same feeling when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The person he sees there isn't part of the world he remembers. A strange nobody is looking back at him.

-

Walt stirs when he feels a slight pressure on his chest. He opens his eyes to see a hand there, right over his heart. He follows that swirling black tattoo up a skinny, scarred arm to its owner. Jesse is looking down at him, but past him. He's so deep inside himself that he doesn't seem to have noticed that Walt's awake now.

"Jesse?"

Jesse recoils all at once, peeling his hand off Walt and backing up all the way across the room.

Walt sits up, slow and careful. The I.V. is pumping medicine these days, not blood, but he still doesn't want to disturb it. "Jesse?" Walt repeats gently. "Are you okay?"

The startled expression on Jesse's face shifts into something more sardonic, his lips twisting, as if that's the most absurd question in the world. _Are you okay?_ Of course he isn't. Does that really need to be said?

But Walt read fear in that first movement, so he isn't giving up quite yet. "You can talk to me," he assures. The man has been all but mute since the day Walt woke up. Anger, in part—yes, Walt understands that. However, there's a deeper damage here. As Walt's gunshot wound has needed treatment, Jesse has also had something festering and it needs to be taken care of or he'll die of it. Walt is certain of that.

"I got nothing to say to you," Jesse mutters, eyes averted.

"Yes, you do," Walt says. "Say it, Jesse. Tell me everything you want me to hear."

Jesse shifts his weight as if he's preparing to storm outside and disappear for a few hours, as usual. But then he doesn't move. He takes two shallow breaths and something cracks. He turns on Walt, roaring, "You _killed_ me! You—You left me there and you let them wreck me and—and now I can't… I can't tell what's real anymore or what's your bullshit. I dunno if I'm thinking things or if it's you in my head, I dunno if I'm seeing things or I'm _seeing things_. I don't… I don't know how to…"

Whatever Jesse says next is lost as he dissolves into tears, sinking to his knees beside the bed. Walt watches with an expression that would be impassive if not for something like sorrow in his eyes. He gives a single nod in acknowledgement of Jesse's words, and though his instinct is to touch Jesse's shoulder, he leaves it alone and allows this much-needed moment of catharsis to play out as it will. Jesse sobs so deeply that the whole cabin seems to shake along with him.

-

Walt's lost a lot of weight. He was already skinnier than Jesse had remembered him, but now it's even worse. He has trouble eating. Jesse doesn't know if it's the chemo or if that means the cancer's spread to his stomach. There's no way they'll ever know, probably.

"Any day now," Jesse says as he hands over a bowl of SpaghettiOs. "We're pretty much packed, so, you know. Whenever you're ready. I'm thinking it won't be too bad, 'long as we don't gotta cross the Rio by foot. But my guy says there's no way we'll have to stop, 'cause the truck has this like… What do you call it? Like a secret compartment. Totally invisible. Dogs won't even smell it. Don't ask me how, but…" He shrugs.

Walt nods, cradling the bowl but not lifting the spoon just yet.

"Then his uncle's taking us down to his farm or whatever, we get a doctor to check on you, and then we'll hit the coast and get on the boat. You know we're taking the long way? Like, we're gonna be just a couple hundred miles from Antarctica. Then back up to the jungle and we're all good. _Caracas_." Jesse breathes that last word like it's a sigh of relief before adding, "Our new home-sweet-home."

"You've got it all planned out," Walt marvels.

Jesse's watching him now. Walt still hasn't lifted that spoon. "You don't like it?" he asks. The SkettiOs, he means.

Walt doesn't answer.

"I'll eat 'em if you don't," Jesse threatens. Facetious, of course.

"You should go without me, Jesse," Walt says abruptly.

A silence hangs in the air while Jesse tries to catch his breath. Did he just laugh or did Walt punch him in the gut? He can't tell. "What?"

"I'm dying."

"No," Jesse says, his voice smaller than he intended. "You're almost totally better. No sepsis, no infection. It was a real lucky shot." He's grasping, purposely avoiding Walt's real meaning.

Walt, on the other hand, refuses to let him linger in denial. "I don't want you to be here when it happens," he continues, looking Jesse straight in the eye. "I don't want you to have to see me like that."

Jesse takes another moment to breathe, the words sinking in. He grows sullen, then softly reassuring: "You don't gotta be like ashamed or—"

Walt shakes his head. "I'm not. That isn't it. Jesse… We've been here for two months. Two months of peace and quiet, without violence and death. Two months of a good life and recovery." He sets the bowl aside and reaches out to touch Jesse's hand. "I don't want it to end with more death. Not for you."

Jesse's eyes narrow. His jaw tightens. He stares for a few seconds, then utters coolly, "You don't get to tell me what to do anymore."

"Why're you doing this?" Walt asks him flat-out. "Any of this. You knew I was dying. You knew, if it wasn't going to be the bullet, then it'd be the cancer. Why take me with you? Why risk everything? For somebody who did nothing but take you for granted."

"I dunno, why did you?" Jesse leans forward, challenging. "I mean, you musta been all cozy out wherever you were hiding for six goddamn months. Then you show up outta nowhere looking like the Unabomber with a robot gun in the trunk of your car, and you—you _throw yourself on top of me_ , you take a bullet for me… For what? Huh? And don't even try and say that was your plan all along, 'cause I saw it in your eyes: you were surprised when you saw me looking like that. So I'm thinking… You came there to kill me, right? 'cause you thought I was the guy in charge. You heard the blue was out there so you got pissed off and you came looking to take me down along with those Nazi scumbags. Why'd you change your mind?"

Walt doesn't answer.

"Here's what I think: I don't think you all of a sudden liked me again. I don't think you did it outta the goodness of your heart or some shit. I don't even think you were sorry. I think you did it 'cause you owed it to me. Because we started this thing fifty-fifty and that's the way it oughta end."

"You owe me nothing, Jesse."

"You're damn right I don't," Jesse laughs bitterly. "And it's gonna stay like that. When you finally keel over—whenever the hell that is—I'm gonna know it's settled for good. I'll know I didn't waste my second chance and I won't regret a single thing. Then this'll all be over. I dunno what comes after that, but at least I won't have to think about this anymore."

Walt shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, suppressing either a cough or a weak sob. When he reopens them, Jesse has his spoon in hand, holding it up for him.

"Now eat something."

-

There's nothing but a rolling blanket of white in every direction and a clear blue sky above. The view really is breathtaking from here. Walt takes one step, then another, then hits a patch of ice and stumbles. Jesse, anticipating that, already had his arms around Walt and catches him easily. "Easy," he warns, steadying his own footing. "You break a hip or something, I don't even know how we're gonna fix it."

"Oh, trust me, I can handle a little ice." New Hampshire had prepared him for that. Of course, he was stronger back then.

"Tell me if you get too cold and we'll go back inside," Jesse says as he slowly shifts, gripping Walt around the waist with only one arm instead. "Don't want you coughing up a whole lung."

"I'm alright, thank you. The fresh air feels quite good, actually." And it does. Not only is it cleaner than the air in the cabin, but the coldness of it is soothing.

Jesse turns his head, squinting against the glare of the sun. "Can't even see the road anymore. Can't even see the car."

"That was some blizzard," Walt remarks. "I didn't even know we could get that much snowfall out here."

"Yeah," Jesse agrees, looking back to him. "Merry Christmas, huh?"

Walt smiles, replying wryly, "Yeah. Merry Christmas."

"You think Alaska's like this?" Jesse asks, turning away again to continue surveying the snowy hills.

"Alaska?"

"Yeah. That's where I was headed. You know, when you asked me to leave town. At least… That's where I thought I was headed." Jesse's chin lowers a touch. Now it seems like he's trying very purposely to not look at Walt. "I guess that van coulda been taking me anywhere and I wouldn'ta known it."

"It wasn't a trick," Walt murmurs, "if that's what you mean."

"Yeah," Jesse replies, in a way that says it hardly matters one way or the other whether it was or wasn't some trap. A way to isolate him and kill him, clean and neat. Whatever.

But it matters to Walt. The implication does, at least. He's watching Jesse, who's still looking pointedly at the horizon. He thinks about arguing further, about confirming once more that he never intended for any of this to happen. But those words would ring hollow now. The road to Hell and all that. "Alaska," he says instead, thoughtful. "I think that would've been nice."

"This is pretty nice, too, though," Jesse says. "Like the whole world's gone and it's just us. I like that."

"Never would've expected to hear that from you," Walt remarks.

"Me neither," Jesse smiles ruefully. "But you remember that guy? That guy Saul set us up with, back when Badger got busted? Jimmy In-'N-Out? Saul said something like… Like how that guy couldn't deal with the outside, how he liked it better inside. I guess it's kinda like that. I dunno what I'd do out there. I try and think about it and I get this feeling… Like this pressure, in my stomach. Nervous, I guess. It's like I don't remember how to be a person, like one of those people just going around, going to movies, eating at Denny's, going shopping and like going to work. I try and remember how I used to do all that and it's like it wasn't even real. Like I never done any of it before and all I got's somebody's else's memories about it."

"It was you," Walt says. "It _was_ you, and it can be you again. You can still live a normal life, Jesse."

"No, yeah, I know. 'Move on,' right? 'Put the darkness behind you.' Yeah, you've said that before."

"That's not what I mean." Walt releases his grip on Jesse, taking a few steps around to face him since Jesse refuses to do so himself. When he does, he can see that Jesse's face is wet with tears. The sight of them makes Walt hesitate for a moment, but he persists, "I believe that there's a good life for you out there somewhere. The things those men did to you… The things _I_ did to you… Unspeakable, unforgivable things. But none of that has damaged you so deeply that you can't recover. No matter how it may feel, you're not dead yet. And as long as you're alive, you aren't so far gone that you can't turn back."

"I don't know," Jesse whimpers, shaking his head. "I don't know."

" _I_ know," Walt insists. "I know because you survived all of that. You couldn't have survived without incredible strength and perseverance. And now you're here, on the other side of it, and it only gets easier from here. I promise you that it does."

Jesse laughs, tears still spilling down his cheeks. A promise, yeah. A promise from Walter White. How much that's worth. But he finds himself believing it anyway, against all his well-earned cynicism and better judgment.

Maybe he has to.

-

Walt's breathing is slow and steady. Jesse lingers by his bedside, listening until he's satisfied that all is well. Then he shuffles across the room (memorized by now, easy to navigate even in this pitch black) to find the door. Soundlessly, he opens it and walks out into the night air, lighting up a cigarette. Shivering even in his layers of flannel and furs, he puffs away and gazes at the stars above. They're so bright here, away from the city lights. Brighter than they were even in the middle of the desert. Before he got here, he thought they only looked like this in movies. He wonders if it's like that with auroras, too. If they're just as pretty as they look in pictures. That must be something to see.

He stares into the Milky Way until his cigarette's burned all the way down, then tosses the stub into the snow. There's a lot less of it now. Spring's a long way off, up here in the mountains, but it's been dry ever since that one storm, and the sun melts the snow away a little day by day.

Just as Jesse's turning to head back inside, a light catches his eye. Distant, shimmering, all the way down in the valley, just before the foothills. He takes a few steps in that direction, squinting. Not just one light. Two, three, four… cars?

Five.

Six.

Jesse's heart catches in his throat. He turns his eyes skyward, scanning the horizon.

There. It's far off still, but he sees it. A star that's not a star. A helicopter.

That son of a bitch sold them out. He must've gotta arrested and cut a deal. That son of a bitch.

Jesse turns, practically diving into the cabin. "Mr. White!" he gasps reflexively. "Mr. White, they're here. They're coming."

He can only catch the faintest movement in the dark, but he knows Walt's up and getting to his feet. Jesse reaches out blindly to help him. "How far?" Walt asks.

"Fifteen minutes, maybe," Jesse guesses. "If we're lucky. But they got a helicopter. I dunno—"

"Go," Walt orders him. "Take the car."

"What?" Jesse shakes his head. " _No._ "

"Somebody has to hold them off, Jesse. You aren't going to be able to outrun a helicopter in open country."

Jesse seizes him by the arm. "I'm not leaving you here."

"Then _both_ of us are going to prison."

"Fine by me."

Neither can see the other, but they remain like that: stalemate, with Jesse still gripping Walt tightly so that he won't slip away and disappear somehow.

Finally, Walt relents, nudging Jesse toward the door. "Hurry."

They run out to where the car's concealed, under a white tarp by the dirt road. Jesse half-expects the battery to be dead when they get inside, which would be just their luck. But they're fine. It starts right up, even if it sputters a bit. Beside him, Walt's coughing.

As Jesse starts to drive, the wheels slide and the car swivels to one side. "Jesus," he hisses. "It's pure ice."

"Good," Walt says as he catches his breath. "They won't be able to track us easily."

But it also means they can't exactly book it out of there. Jesse hardly presses the gas and the car begins slipping down the road in the opposite direction of those police cars. He lets it coast and concentrates on steering. The brakes are useless in this situation.

"I can't see anything," he whispers, panicked, as something—a tree branch or a fence or something—scrapes the side of the car before he can steer out of the way.

"You can do this," Walt assures him. "It's just a little car, not an RV."

Jesse's lips twitch. That thing was such a pain in the ass to steer. The amusement's gone a moment later when the bumper hits another something and sends the car nearly spinning in a full circle before Jesse regains control of it.

"I dunno where I'm even going," he says.

"You'll know when you get there," Walt replies. "Just keep it up."

Now it's the back bumper that hits something, and the road drops in a sharp descent. It reminds Jesse of Space Mountain, riding the rollercoaster in total darkness. Yeah, it's just like that. When was that? He was like nine or something when they went to Disney World, wasn't he?

They hit a bump in the road that sends the car flying out of control, and Jesse grinds his teeth and braces for impact. Suddenly it's like that stupid teacup ride. Beside him, Walt's either coughing or gagging. The nausea. Shit, that must suck. It prompts Jesse to try a little harder, and he turns stubbornly into the spin until he has control again.

"Sorry."

"It's—It's okay. Keep going."

Jesse swears he hears sirens echoing out there somewhere, but now that they're over the other side of the hill, he's got no visual on the cops. The road, at least, gets a little smoother. It's feels like a straight shot down, which is scary because they're gaining momentum and it's going to be hard to stop if they have to, but maybe they can actually do this. Maybe they'll get away without getting arrested or driving over a cliff or something.

"It's kinda fun," Jesse says as the car gains speed, plummeting down to who-knows-where. His heart is thumping in his chest.

"Yeah," Walt agrees before dissolving into another hacking cough.

"Yeah," Jesse echoes. "Just relax now, Mr. White. We're gonna get outta here."

The road dips and crests into another hill. Luckily, they have enough inertia to keep from sliding backwards. Jesse glances in the mirror but he still can't spot any lights. That's good, though. Better to see nothing than a whole lotta something chasing them. He keeps quiet now, listening for the sirens again, but all he can hear is the wind whistling past the windows. Even Walt's coughing has subsided. They drive on in silence for almost an hour, making their descent straight down the mountain.

In the east, the sky begins to lighten. It's good and bad news for them. Good, because Jesse can start to see where he's going. Bad, because anyone might spot them out here. Then again, they're so far from the cabin by now that they should be fine as long as they don't hit a police roadblock. They'll be setting those up, won't they? If they haven't already.

The road's drying out, too. The lower the elevation, the less ice. After another ten minutes, they hit pavement and Jesse's finally free to hightail it. Hills flatten out into the familiar desert valley and there's still no sound of sirens, no spotlight from a helicopter, no line of cars waiting to stop them.

"I think we're gonna make it," Jesse whispers. "I can't believe it. We really made it outta there. Jesus…"

Walt doesn't answer.

Jesse glances at him. Ah, he's asleep.

The sun finally rises over the frostbitten plain, washing pink light over the dead grass on either side of the road. Jesse almost wants to wake Walt up so he can see it. It's so pretty. Maybe he only thinks that because he expected to be staring at the inside of another cell by now, but he really thinks it's the most beautiful sight in the world.

Jesse smiles, blinking back tears.

"I think we're gonna make it," he tells himself one more time.


End file.
